


The New Frontier

by Stephen Greenwood (Stephen_Greenwood)



Category: Californication (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephen_Greenwood/pseuds/Stephen%20Greenwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank and Karen meet at a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Frontier

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: NC-17 for language and explicit sex - don't say you weren't warned  
> Spoilers: I don't think there's anything blazingly overt but we'll say this is set about 2x10, 2x11, so everything before is fair game.  
> Disclaimer: What Tom Kapinos and crew at Showtime don't know won't hurt them...
> 
> Massive thanks to leucocrystal for putting up with my emails while working on this and then having the guts to read through my crap and fix it up until we reached this. Your encouragement and feedback was beyond anything I ever expected or hoped for. Thank you for returning the favour and I only hope we can do it again some day.

She knew he was Trouble the moment she first laid eyes on him. It was instinctual, a predator-prey connection from the get-go with the roles interchangeable, neither really ever sure of who was winning and who was losing and who was just plain out of the game. Maybe they should have sat back and realised a tie was more than good enough; equality was a good guarantee of a happy relationship. But they were both ambitious and proud, and while being submissive was okay in the bedroom, in the real world it was a sign of weakness and neither wished to climb willingly off his or her perch. She should have seen it then, his impossibly high standards nobody could hope to live up to. The signs were there to pay attention to but she glossed them over in favour of the here and now; she felt she'd already spent too much time dwelling on the past so the present seemed like a safe bet, something more substantial and worthwhile to think about.

But every so often, she liked to mull over the events that led to her transplanting to California with a teenage daughter and a… well, whatever he is to her. After all, if you denied your roots, how could you be sure of who you really were? Reminiscing was good as long as it didn't drag up bad memories and past regrets; it rarely did, although she often deconstructed her old decisions into small enough chunks to analyse, always reaching the inevitable conclusion that what was done is done and she couldn't change it now even if she wanted to.

Which she didn't. She had Becca and Hank, and she couldn't have the former without the latter; they came hand in hand, a package deal never to be separated. She could never bring herself to do such a thing. Hank had surprised her by being a better father than she'd ever thought possible, given his penchant for booze and cigarettes and women, all of which she'd picked up on within the first ten or fifteen minutes of knowing him. And, of course, he was obviously going to Hell for his pride. She had expected trouble and trouble she had received, in the form of a well-defined body with a tight ass and firm biceps.

Damn, but temptation came in a nice package.

And perhaps the most troubling thing was how addicted she was to him, like those smokes she still stole from time to time. He was her bad habit but he brought with him all these other nuances, like skipping work to stay at home in bed and neglecting to do the laundry because he thought it'd be better if they walked around naked. She rolled her eyes a lot and fired back witty retorts because she knew he expected it and it made him happy, but it makes her happy, too, to know he's still interested after over a decade of on-again off-again Ross and Rachel would be proud of.

 _Jesus_ , she thought, _has it really been that long?_

* * * * *

A small cheer rose from the corner of the bar when he walked in, as if they had all been watching the door, awaiting his arrival. He grinned and sauntered over, exchanging handshakes and high-fives with the boys, of which there were precious few, and Hollywood-fake kisses with the wannabe actresses and groupies, of which there were plenty. She looked over curiously to see what all the fuss was about – after all, it was CBGB's in the Soundgarden era; who knew who might walk in next?

When she didn't recognise him, and therefore he obviously wasn't famous, she made to turn away but he caught her eye over numerous empty bar stools and winked; she still isn't sure if it was an honest-to-god twinkle or just a combination of the lighting, the smoke, and the two or three martinis she'd had over the course of the evening (knowing what she knows now, she suspects the former; he has an uncanny ability to turn on the charm when it comes to women. If he only did the same with his work colleagues and his muse, she imagines he would be a whole lot richer and there would be fewer bruised egos left in his wake like discarded trash).

She feigned disinterest and looked away, towards the door, as if she expected a friendly face to appear at any minute. Sipping on her drink, the alcohol sliding easily down her throat, she scanned the barely visible room, taking in the couples and the groups of friends laughing, drinking, and listening to the somewhat decent punk band on stage. They weren't The Clash, by any means, but the lead singer was kind of hot and the bass line was deep and resonate; she could feel the vibrations through the floor.

"Quit imagining yourself in his pants and start getting into mine," a voice said in her ear.

She turned around so fast she was surprised she didn't get whiplash. She hid her smile as she replied with veiled annoyance, "What makes you think I want to?"

"You were totally checking me out," he smirked. "When I walked in."

"You didn't walk; you strutted."

"Ah, so you _were_ paying attention." She dipped her head to conceal her amusement and he took it as his cue to sit down. "How many more will it take to convince you to come home with me?" he asked, pointing to her row of empty glasses and pulling out his wallet.

"You have enough cash in there to buy out the bar?"

"I maxed out the American Express but there should be enough on the Visa," he grinned. "So, what'll it be?"

She decided to spice things up a little and ordered a shot of some fluorescent blue liquid, mainly to see what his reaction would be, but he only smiled wider, a Cheshire cat in pitiful disguise, and said, "Make it two."

"What's your name?" she blurted out as the bartender set the shot glass in front of her. Tracing the rim with her finger, she felt his eyes scorching the side of her face (and her breasts, for a moment or two) and she wasn't sure if he was going to answer. It seemed like an awfully long time for such a simple question.

"Hank," he finally replied, extending his hand. "And you are?"

"Karen."

Instead of shaking her hand with the same limp firmness the majority of men possess when shaking hands with a woman, he lifted it to his mouth, his lips all full and wet from his last sip of whatever beer he'd be nursing before he'd wandered over, and a feather-light kiss was pressed to her knuckles. His breath warm and moist on her skin, he made eye contact and said, "Nice to meet you, Karen." It had been right then, that exact moment, she felt herself falling down the rabbit hole. Of course, she would never admit it, not even now. It would be like bloodletting near a shark.

"So, Karen, why are you here all alone on a Friday night?" He lit a cigarette, offered her one, and used it as an excuse to inhale deeply when she leaned into his lighter.

She took a long drag, pausing to collect her thoughts, before turning to him and saying confidently, "What makes you think I'm alone?" Score. She saw the flash of self-doubt in his eyes, although it had come and gone as fast as a bullet train, but soon that mischievous glint returned and she had to fight to keep a straight face.

"If you were waiting for a friend, you wouldn't have had so much to drink. If it was a date and you'd been stood up, which I can't see as a possibility, you'd have turned to this weird shit a lot sooner." He downed the mouthwash-esque liquid, grimacing as it burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. "Jesus, lady, that's some drink right there."

"Can't handle it?" she asked, throwing down the silent gauntlet.

"Give me all your shit; I'll handle the fuck out of it," he replied. "It's my own I can't deal with."

"Ah, a troubled soul," she teased, making him bow his head in acknowledgment. "Let me guess…your wife left you."

"Ouch." He raised the hand holding his cigarette to his chest as if in pain. "Why would a woman ever leave me?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot. You're perfect in every way, shape and form."

"Well, I don't like to brag, but…" Laughing and rolling her eyes at his lame joke, she caught him gazing at her like she was ethereal, some drug-induced hallucination (though he wasn't high, as far as she could tell), an oasis in the desert. A small smile played on his lips and he leaned on his hand in a poor imitation of Rodin's Thinker. She curiously asked, "What?", and he shook his head, cleared his thoughts, took a quick drag and exhaled a plume of smoke.

"Your groupies have noticed you're AWOL," she pointed out, and he turned in his seat to see the bleached blondes craning their necks like deformed ostriches, searching for him.

"Fuck 'em." He showed them the back of his head, all his focus on her. "Another drink?"

She eyed him up, looking at him critically. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself he was fairly good looking. All right, fucking hot. He tilted his head to one side like a puppy, his soulful hazel eyes doing nothing to detract from the mental image. The goatee was a shade darker than the rest of the stubble covering his cheeks, and his hair had that just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-damn-I-look-good shape only guys seemed able to pull off. He wasn't wearing anything special – jeans and a faded blue t-shirt – but despite the lack of Gucci or Armani, he still managed to have an air about him the better-dressed guy who had hit on her earlier in the evening failed to even come close to matching, never mind surpassing.

"Hit me with that green stuff," she said, spying a bottle.

"It looks like Bill Murray should be wrestling it," he argued, but paid for it anyway. A smirk tugged at her lips at the almost-decade-old pop culture reference. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the next in a round of primary-coloured infusions. Again, he'd unsettled her by getting one for himself; she thought this was her game. He was proving himself a worthy opponent, downing all that disgusting luminous crap just to hold her interest for God only knew what reason.

"Hank, why are you over here with me instead of over there with your friends?"

He looked surprised at her question but answered with good grace: "I don't really know them. They just hang around."

"So you tend to be cheered whenever you walk into a room," she joked. "Damn, what secret am I missing out on?"

"You could always publish a novel," he suggested.

"Ah, the penny has dropped."

"Go on, ask it," he goaded.

"Ask what?"

"The one question people always ask when they find out you're a writer."

"You're a writer now? Wow, one book and you think you're Shakespeare."

"Thou art mistaken, fair maiden of Manhattan. I'm no Bard; I'm better. I might not have a pair of star-crossed lovers or a ghostly father on the battlements, but I'm the real deal, honey. Now, ask it." She raised an eyebrow at his smugness but decided to humour him.

"Anything I might've read?" His face lit up with glee and she was reminded of a child at Christmas; somewhere, underneath the fairly adult facial hair and strong sense of outward confidence, there lurked an insecure little boy who needed to know he mattered. She felt an inexplicable allure to the stranger who had started a conversation with a crass chat-up line a thirteen year old might have been satisfied with. Still, she'd kept him talking, not that he'd needed any encouragement, and although there had been a glimpse of his words-as-weapons attitude, she hadn't felt the need to brush him off like crap stuck to the sole of her shoe.

"It's called South of Heaven," he said proudly. "It's about the world going to Hell, eternal damnation, that kind of thing."

"Never heard of it," she shot back.

"You will," he assured her. "Besides, it's not like you've done anything special."

"Don't be so sure," she warned him. "I could be a genius for all you know."

"A genius wouldn't be caught dead drinking phosphorous piss."

"And just how many geniuses do you know?"

"Point conceded," he admitted with a smile. "Almighty Karen, please divulge the secrets of your life's work upon a mere mortal such as I."

He seemed genuinely interested, and she had nowhere else she needed to be, so she said, "I'm an artist."

"Really?" he asked, sounding sceptical. "What, no beret? I'm disappointed."

She ignored him and continued. "Art's my day thing. By night-"

"Don't tell me." He held out a hand to stop her. "By night, you put on a tight Lycra catsuit and save Gotham from horrific evils."

"The first one, maybe, if you factor in a whip and chains," she threw back, delighting in the way his pupils dilated and his breath seemed to catch in his chest. His tongue came out to wet his lips and he shifted on the stool, but he was noticeably pleased by her quick banter.

"Now that," he said, rubbing his hands together, "would be a vision to behold. Care to show me, Catwoman?"

"Maybe later. But as I was saying," she said, giving him a pointed look for interrupting the first time, "I play bass in a band."

"Bass? That's the one that never gets any distinction, right? No solos, no ripping chords, backing vocals if you're lucky."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm good, you know."

"I'm sure you are," he said, and she hadn't been able to tell if he was being condescending or just honest. "What's the name of your band?"

"Pure Arson."

"Never heard of you."

"You will."

"Touché." He paused for a moment, looking at her with a mild mix of curiosity and amusement on his face. "So," he nodded towards the stage, "what do you think of those guys? Apart from the fact that you want to fuck Kurt Cobain's body double up there senseless."

She mock-glared at him while taking a drag from the rapidly shrinking cigarette. "They're semi-decent," she said, "but the drummer came in late on the last song, the guitar's out of tune, and the singer can't hold a note for longer than five seconds."

"But the bassist is okay?"

She shrugged noncommittally and said, "For an amateur."

"And you're better than that," he stated, cocking his head to one side as if weighing her up.

"Yeah," she answered. "If you'd been here last night, you would've known."

"I was too busy fucking a couple of hot Europeans to care about who took centre-stage at CBGB's, but if you're up for it now I'd love a solo performance."

"I don't think I'm drunk enough."

"I have a couple of six packs at home," he tried. "Maybe a bottle of whiskey or two; enough vodka to get the entire population of Russia utterly shitfaced." He leaned into her personal space, covering her hand with his own much larger one. "C'mon, I don't want to spend the rest of the night with some idiotic blonde who can't do much more than giggle and moan like a whore. You wouldn't put me through that, would you?"

"What do you want?" she asked, levelling him with a stare.

A corner of his mouth turned upwards in a grin and he tugged on her hand gently. "You," he said, his voice suddenly an octave deeper, "just you. Warts and all, if you have any. Invite them to the party. Rashes – hell, any skin condition, let's not discriminate – scars, infections; bring 'em on."

She laughed in his face and told him he was "fucking disgusting" before the motions of her amusement somehow caused her to be gently caressing his lips and tongue with her own. Damn, but he knew how to kiss – still did – and when he pulled her off her stool to stand between his denim-clad thighs, his hands wasting no time in slipping under the thin material of her shirt to rake his nails up and down her spine, it felt oh-so-good and so much more than she'd ever felt with that musician whose name she couldn't even remember when Hank was touching her just the way she liked it. She was pressed right against his chest and her fingers were overrun with locks of his silky dark hair, and he was crushing her but in a good way as his tongue played with her tonsils and one of those giant hands cupped her ass, and she knew they were making out in a smoke-filled bar with a thrashing guitar and screaming vocals reverberating off the walls but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood through her veins because he made her feel so, so alive.

"Let's take this outside," he mumbled into her mouth.

"What, you gonna beat me up and take my lunch money?"

"I'd rather fuck you 'til you see stars," he growled, and it was so hot, the rasp of his stubble against her cheek and the rich voice invading her head, that she forgot about his arrogance and the size of his ego and started to wonder about the size of something else, instead; something that, if she'd deduced correctly, had been pressing rather urgently against her form for a good few minutes.

"Is that a pen in your pocket, Mr. Writer, or are you just pleased to see me?" she ribbed.

"Oh, so now you acknowledge my talents? I know where I stand."

"Quit running your mouth and put it to good use," she ordered, and pulled him back to her for a lengthy exchange of saliva.

* * * * *

An indeterminate amount of time later, and with a hazy-at-best recollection of having ended up there, she found herself in his bed, that luscious mouth and those long, slender fingers playing her like a violin, minus the melancholy. It was all she could do to stifle her groans; after all, he didn't want some sound byte hooker. Unfortunate as it was, the only phrases to sluggishly reach her preoccupied mind were too familiar to cheap porn flicks to voice, so she took to winding her fingers through his hair and scraping her nails over his scalp as he thrust two fingers in and out, in and out, and his tongue rubbed indistinguishable patterns against her clit and she didn't care what he was writing so long as he never stopped. Hell, she'd let him pen his next novel down there if he wanted to; if those quiet moans were anything to go by, he'd quite happily do it.

"You smell so good," he mumbled in between licks. "Should bottle it… sell it… make you rich."

"Uh-huh," she managed to gasp, tugging sharply on his hair. The way he looked at her, eyes clear and sharp, black holes of desire, made her shudder, the smouldering intensity almost overwhelming. Her juices coated his lips, those gorgeously full lips, and his tongue traced them slowly, savouring the taste. He exuded sexuality and her arousal kicked up another notch, her entire body thrumming with excited nerve endings and plain and simple lust for the man whose head rested between her thighs, more intent on giving her pleasure than receiving it himself. It made her want to cry out with unadulterated joy from the sheer bliss of it all; there was nothing better for getting over the blues than a good old fashioned screw.

"Can I have my hair back for a moment?" he asked. "Things are more than a little cramped down below and I need to free my boys before they suffocate." She obliged, instantly mourning the loss of his fingers inside her and the talents of his tongue, and watched as he unbuttoned his jeans, sliding them down his thighs and taking his boxers with them. Broad shoulders, well-defined abs, muscular thighs, hard cock – definitely hard cock – and a wickedly smug grin at her response to his naked body. "I would ask if you like what you see but it seems pretty obvious you do," he drawled, climbing back onto the bed and crawling up to her, turning to lie on his side to face her.

"Hmm." She reached out a hand and stroked him firmly, hearing the small gasp he tried to contain. "You just might be right on that one."

"Fuck," he muttered, eyes fluttering shut as her thumb pressed against the sensitive underside of the head. "Oh, God, yes."

She smirked, pleased she had been able to reduce the loquacious novelist to a slew of monosyllables with one simple action. His palm rested on her cheek, keeping him tied to reality when all he wanted to do was surrender to her, pound into her until he found release and float away on the euphoria. She manipulated him as if he was made of clay, sculpting and shaping to her heart's content, eliciting grunts and loud exhales through her ministrations of his flesh. Looking at his flushed face, the beads of sweat trickling down his stubble-covered cheeks, she knew she had ultimate control over him. He was biting his lip and frowning with fierce concentration, trying to hold on to some semblance of control, but if she stopped, if she turned around and said "no", he'd be forced to go on his merry way. She didn't believe him capable of taking advantage of her; he might have been reduced to his most animal state, but he had never been rough with her, had actually spent an extravagant amount of time on foreplay, although that had been akin to pleasant torture. Her release had been so close, so incredibly close, and he'd known, had lightened his touch so it wasn't quite enough to-

"Stop," he said suddenly, hand flying out to grab her wrist and halt the motions of her hand around his cock. His breathing was heavy as he looked at her from under hooded lids. "You nearly blew your chances."

"Don't you mean you did?"

"Fuck, I can't argue semantics when there's no blood flowing to my brain." He shifted, lowering himself on top of her and pressing a hard kiss to her lips before assaulting the pulse point behind her ear.

"Hank," she whispered, running her fingers through the long hair at his nape, "we need a con-" He chose that moment to rub the head of his erection over her clit and all sane and logical thought flew out of her mind; how was she supposed to breathe, never mind think, when he was doing that?

"What were you saying?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," she said, and pulled his face to hers so she could slip her tongue inside his mouth. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt like devouring a man whole, if she ever had. His technique was sensual, almost to the point of being unbearable, and, she thought with amazement, they hadn't even fucked yet.

He pulled out of their kiss to murmur, "I want you, Karen." She wrapped her legs around his waist and quirked an eyebrow as if to say _what are you waiting for?_ Hell, she'd been ready for him since that initial wink in the bar. He reached down and guided himself into her, studying her face the entire time. She kept her eyes locked on his, her body accepting his invasion without protest. He smiled beautifully once he was fully inside her; she could hardly believe this was the same man who had talked so crudely about getting into her pants earlier that evening. _Mission accomplished_ , she thought. She was almost painfully aroused and she knew he had been close a few minutes ago, so when he began to move with slow, albeit blissful, strokes, she couldn't help but feel somewhat relieved.

She learned the man could multitask when he leaned in to kiss her while maintaining that delightful rhythm of his hips between her thighs. The dual pleasure at both ends of her body sent her head spinning; she could feel him surrounding her, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His masculine scent assailed her olfactory system; the stale cigarette smoke was replaced by sweat and sex, a heady combination, and she ran her hands over the slippery slope of his muscular back. She could hear his breathing, shallow and fast, and the wet slap of flesh on flesh with every long thrust. And then there was the sight of him, damp hair sticking to his face and body tense. It was sensory overload at its finest and she shut her eyes in partial defence; there wasn't much she could do about anything else.

Perceiving her discomfort, he sped up, forgoing pace and technique for raw feeling, hoping she wouldn't mind. Her moan and call to a deity suggested she didn't. It was all good – so very good – but it wasn't quite enough and as much as she was struggling to reach her peak, she knew from experience it wouldn't happen without some extra stimulation. "More," she panted, hoping he'd understand. Lowering himself onto an elbow, he reached between their bodies to rub frantic circles over her clit, the awkward angle and lack of cooperation between his tiring limbs made it difficult to find a semi-decent pattern.

It was enough. She arched her back, the sensations washing over her in waves of intense pleasure so strong she thought they'd never stop. She was on fire; he was burning her with his touch and it was electrifying and new and she couldn't help but cling to him because if she didn't she felt she'd leave her body, it was that good.

When her eyes finally focused, the first thing she noticed was the look of awe and wonder on his face. She smiled tiredly and it took a lot of effort to reach up and trace his bottom lip with her finger but she did it anyway. He pursed his lips in greeting and said, "I think the entire fucking solar system moved for you, never mind the Earth."

She laughed and flung her arms over her head carelessly. "Something like that," she admitted, "but you're still standing tall." She squeezed her muscles around his cock, hot and hard inside her, and heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Hold on," he muttered. "This could get bumpy." His previously smooth strokes quickly turned short, sharp, erratic, and he shook his hair out of his eyes like a wet mongrel, his perspiration flying in several different directions. She raised her hips to meet him each time he drove back into her, feeling him deep inside her, striving for the same release she had just found. She bent her knees, pulling them closer to her body, allowing him to slide in even further; he whimpered at the new depth and a few ragged thrusts later, he stiffened and came into her with a moan loud enough to wake the neighbours.

He collapsed on top of her, his muscles shaking from exertion. "Stay with me," he raggedly whispered into her ear.

"Yes," she agreed, tightening her limbs around his sweaty body and closing her tired eyes.

* * * * *

That night fourteen years ago had been the beginning of a beautifully flawed relationship, one neither had been looking for or even wanting. "In ten years' time, you just might be the love of my life," he'd once said in a bachelor's apartment in New York City, dingy and grey, before things were so complicated and screwed up, back when they'd thought they could make it. She doesn't think he knew what he was saying at the time – that it was a reaction brought on by extreme shock because, let's face it, he had just knocked her up – but now she knows he means it when he speaks those three words. Sometimes he just has to look at her and she knows; to many he may seem like a closed book but he wears his heart on his sleeve for her, plain and simple, clear as day, and any and every other cliché that fits. He's always maintained his honesty in his feelings for her – he's one persistent son of a bitch, she'll give him that – and his constant declarations have, over time, eroded her defences to the point of them being almost non-existent.

And she keeps finding herself in his bed. Her bed. The shower. A particular lavatory on a flight from JFK to LAX. The location doesn't matter; it's the man who sleeps soundly beside her, his undying devotion and his strange ways of showing it. She is his downfall and his saviour, his strength and his weakness in one rather attractive package he refers to as The One. She doesn't know if she can be all he thinks she is; she sometimes wonders if she should climb off the pedestal before she is knocked from it. Despite her flaws, her glaringly evident imperfections, he sees her as an idol, and at some point down the rocky road she became necessity instead of mere want, and that thought scares the shit out of her, though she feels the same way about him.

She's still falling down the rabbit hole and she hopes she never stops.


End file.
